Children come according to their mothers’ stories about them. A mother loads her child down with fairy tales, nothing more, and then sends him out to the world—either full and self-sufficient or else lacking and deficient forever. My brother, Sa’id, was born already bearing a story that told him he was unique and destined to shine, that he was the smartest and most beautiful. I, however, barged my way into life, uninvited, unwanted, the supernumerary son; which perhaps is why I clung so tight to the womb. Just the opposite of my three sisters, whom Thurayya claimed miscarried in their second and third months. And whenever anyone worked up the courage to ask her how she was so sure they were female, Thurayya would shiver with anger and swear that she was certain of it because of maternal intuition, the same intuition that made her realize even before she saw my face that I wouldn’t look like my brother or have any of his virtues. Sometimes, when life feels too much for me, I find myself replaying that moment when the midwife dropped me in Thurayya’s hands and she discovered that I was a boy. She, who said she wanted it to be a girl after Sa’id; I, who think she didn’t want anything at all after Sa’id. I picture her look of disappointment, irritation, and grief when she saw me, unplanned, unwanted, and unloved. A moment that I can’t remember, of course, but the scene is nonetheless as vivid as if seared into my flesh. I can even see the moment she first looked at me like a thing, some object she had no need for and for which she could think of no specific use. A tumor working its way into her system and threatening her existence. Yes. Thurayya treated me as though I were an intruder in her life. And I treated myself as though I were an intruder upon life itself …

Mr. N opened the drawer where he kept his pencils. He didn’t like the one in his hand. It was some cheap model that required him to press down harder than he liked in order to make the words clear—not to mention the fact that the thing slowed him down and hurt his fingers. He had explained to Miss Zahra exactly what type of pencil he wanted, Faber-Castell 2B, and she had brought him a box of this Chinese junk that barely wrote. He took out the box, replaced the one he was holding, and threw the whole package in the wastebasket. But no, he thought, she might not see it there. She ought to realize what she’s done wrong. So he took the box back out and dumped out the six pencils inside. He broke them, one after another. Then he set them beside the box on the table so she would notice them as soon as she entered. Miss Zahra had clearly forgotten who he was, had forgotten that she was there to carry out his requests. She needed to be cut down to size. He was the customer there, she was the employee, and the customer is always right. He had explained to her exactly how pencils were classified. He had taken out a piece of paper and written: